My first full summer in Oklahoma happened to be its hottest on record. The average June-August temperature for 2011 was 87.5°F — an impressive 1.6°F warmer than that of the next-hottest year. The Oklahoma-Texas heat wave made headlines around the country, and the attention might have been flattering if the weather hadn’t been so universally miserable. For my part, I was pretty busy doing two things that summer: 1) thanking God for the air conditioning in my house and car, and 2) running countless miles along dusty Oklahoma roads.
Oh yeah — that summer was *also* my first-ever season of cross country, and it was as hellish as you might imagine. Somehow, though, I managed to acclimate to running for an entire summer in ≥100°F heat.
I am absolutely certain that I could no longer accomplish this feat — mostly, because I no longer have the motivation to do so. Back in 2011, my most heartfelt goal was to make it to State — and I was willing to do whatever it took to achieve that goal. Accordingly, I cultivated a remarkable heat resilience that was born from willpower, not from physical aptitude.
But, that was back when I only needed to take care of myself — and those days are long gone.
Since conceiving Borealis, my concern for his spiritual, physical, emotional, and mental health has irrevocably changed the identity of my most heartfelt goals — and this summer has been no different.
Notably, Bo overheats very quickly, and he doesn’t yet understand the direct relationship between sunshine and scalding heat. In other words, it is entirely up to me to keep him in a comfortable and safe temperature range.
Consequently, my primary short-term goal this summer has been to keep Borealis (and Australis) as cool as possible — and, as in high school, I’ve been willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that goal. Since our house doesn’t have air conditioning, “whatever it takes” roughly translates to “finding another place to take my child(ren) during the day”.
But where does a very pregnant mom go when it’s nearly a hundred degrees outside? Wait, let me clarify — where does a very pregnant mom go when it’s nearly a hundred degrees outside, and she doesn’t want to spend much money? [Note: This pecuniary reticence also entails the minimization of driving — at least, ever since Taylor calculated that my car consumes approximately 53¢ per mile in gas, maintenance, and depreciation.]
Well, first, let’s identify options that *don’t* work. Number one: anything outside. There’s nothing in the area that is sufficiently shady as to mitigate 100°F heat.
[Note: We frequently walk outside once the sun has dipped below the mountains and the temperature has started to decline. In the noontime heat, however, spending five minutes in direct sunlight feels tantamount to spending five minutes in a volcano. Oh, the joys of living at altitude!]
Another unsatisfactory solution is anything that involves extended periods of stationary sitting — so, coffee shops, restaurants, movies, etc. Ditto for most anywhere that requires a roundtrip of more than ten miles (aka ≥$5.30 in gas, maintenance, and depreciation), or anything that costs more than $10 for our joint admission. Oh, and Borealis is a paper-shredder, so the library isn’t a great place for us either.
Those constraints leave me with a handful of viable options for achieving my goal of keeping my kid(s) cool. I’ll subdivide these options into two categories: the shopping cart activities, and the free-range activities.
Of the former, there is seemingly no end. Goodwill, Target, Safeway, King Soopers, Home Depot, Marshalls… Countless air-conditioned shopping locales offer the chance to entertain and constrain my child, and all of them have one thing in common: the shopping — or, rather, the *expectation* of shopping.
This is a pretty reasonable expectation on the part of store employees. People typically visit a store only if they intend to buy [or seriously consider buying] something. Not so with Bo and me. If we enter a non-grocery store, there is an 80% chance we’ll exit empty-handed.
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of strapping your eighteen-month-old into a cart with the knowledge that you’ll carefully peruse the contents of each aisle, then exit the store an hour later none the poorer. I truly feel bad. Every time an employee asks if I need help, I nearly blurt, “No, I’m sorry, I’m just using your air conditioning, please don’t waste your time with me.” Instead, pride compels me to smile and insist that I’m finding everything quite well. This assertion usually prompts a bemused glance toward my empty cart, at which point I walk briskly away.
[Note: Nowhere is my “shopping” ruse more flimsy than in Home Depot. Nothing about Bo or me screams “home repair aficionados”. I try to curtail any offers of help by loudly describing the contents of each aisle to my son as we slowly meander through the store. “This is a subway-style backsplash. You can tell because of the two-to-one length-to-height ratio.” Bo, for his part, still can’t correctly identify subway-style tile.]
So, while the shopping cart activities allow us to waste time and stay cool, our typical furtive and empty-handed exits are less than desirable. Plus, Bo’s long arms mean that I must constantly be vigilant to ensure that he doesn’t unintentionally (or intentionally) knock anything off the store’s shelves. Accordingly, I try to keep these purchase-free, moderate-risk outings to a relative minimum, lest the store employees start to recognize me as “that lady who never buys anything with the toddler who tries to break everything”. (I guess my next step is to start making a token purchase everywhere I go — you know, like buying a candy bar whenever you use a gas station bathroom.)
In short, the shopping cart activities are not the ideal answer to my question of, “What is the best way keep my family cool?”
So, let’s return to the other category of acceptable pastimes: the free-range activities. During the autumn, I anticipate that these aerobic excursions will primarily take place outside. Right now, however, I genuinely don’t feel safe having Bo play outside during the heat of the day. In the meantime, though, there’s always the old mainstay of overheated parents everywhere: the mall.
Our local shopping megaplex, Colorado Mills mall, is a one-mile-circumference behemoth with hybridized culture that is somehow equal parts high fashion, flea market, and mariachi band. Several minutes’ walk will bring you past stores that range from Forever 21 to Coach, from IT’SUGAR (sic) to Le Creuset, and from Häagen Dazs to authentic street tacos. It’s one of the very few places where Bo and I *don’t* stick out — especially if we’re at the Mecca of all mall sites: the free play area.
Earlier this summer, the Denver Museum of Nature and Science installed a space-themed play area in the unincorporated region between Neighborhoods 4 & 5. This “Mars Outpost” is rich is scientific content — all of which is lost on my toddler (and, seemingly, on most of the area’s child visitors).
Nevertheless, Bo is a big fan of the Mars Outpost. He enjoys a variety of activities at the play area: repeatedly climbing onto and off of the “Mars rover”; wildly spinning the wheel that controls the digital display of the cosmos; silently staring at the other kids; etc. But most of all, his favorite activity is to unexpectedly sprint out of the play area and start walking around the mall. (Don’t worry — I always catch up with him pretty quickly.)
As much time as we spend at the Mars Outpost, we spend far more time just… walking. Bo really, *really* likes to walk. If we’re lucky enough to hit the mall when it’s not too busy, he’ll usually putter around happily for nearly an hour.
When it comes to the mall, however, sometimes we’re UN-lucky. The population density of Colorado Mills ranges from “sparse” on a weekday morning to “positively absurd” on a weekend afternoon.
For most people, this wouldn’t be a major issue. However, my son is not “most people”. Like his father, Bo strongly dislikes crowds. Unlike his father, Bo will start screaming if he gets upset. (Thankfully, Taylor has grown out of that habit.) Generally, it’s just easier to take Borealis places where his social encounters will be one-on-one, rather than in large groups.
In short, my son’s crowd aversion means that the mall is *also* not the ideal way for me to keep my family cool.
For the first half of this summer, all my attempts to find a “perfect solution” were ineffective. I had a son who wanted to walk (and to be cool), but sometimes, I had nowhere to take him. Neither the sedentary shopping cart activities nor the overcrowded mall would fit the bill.
Where, I thought, could I possibly find a constantly air-conditioned, always sparsely-populated indoor location with plenty of room for Bo to walk, but few things for him to break? I felt like one of those naive couples on HGTV: “We want all the amenities, in the right neighborhood, for not too much money.”
One night, after an especially hot day, Taylor and I were laying in bed. We had thrown off both the blanket and sheet, but neither of us felt cool. I could think about nothing but the heat.
“You know,” I reminisced, “I used to run in a hundred ten degree heat all the time. Practice was only cancelled if the temp reached one-eleven.”
Taylor: <grunts in acknowledgment>
“But, I can’t handle that kind of heat anymore… and Bo *really* can’t handle that kind of heat.” I sighed. “Poor kid… even with sunscreen on, his face got all red today in a matter of, like, five minutes.”
Taylor: <grunts distractedly>
“Are you even listening to me?”
Taylor grunted again, then summarized, “You used to be tough, but now you don’t like being hot. And neither does the baby.”
I was forced to conclude, “Um, yeah, that’s basically it.”
Taylor: <silence>
I sighed again. “I don’t know, Taylor. I guess Mines and its air conditioning spoiled me forever. And the baby is… well, you know, he’s just a baby. He has basically no control over how he reacts.”
Taylor: <grunts in laughter and heat exhaustion>
Needless to say, neither of us slept well that night. But, when I woke up the next morning, I had an epiphany. I might still blame my alma mater for my acquired heat-intolerance… but Mines could possibly provide the solution to my season-long conundrum!
In theory, the Mines academic buildings fit all my desired criteria: climate-controlled (so expensive, but so delightful); mostly deserted (like every college during the summer); spacious (especially the long hallways of professorial offices); and toddler-proofed (which, incidentally, is virtually identical to freshman-proofed). Now, all that remained to be done was to test my theory — which I did that very afternoon.
After driving the three minutes down to Mines, we parked in basically the best spot ever (teacher parking), then moseyed onto campus. As I had suspected, the academic buildings were both virtually uninhabited and gloriously cool. It didn’t take long to decide that my hunch had been right: as unexpected as it was, Mines was the “perfect solution” for which I had been searching.
That afternoon, I let Borealis choose our path through the academic buildings. And let me tell you — he enjoyed the experience.
Ever the adventure-junkie, my son immediately sought out the most dangerous structure he could find: stairs. Alternately holding onto the handrail or onto my hand, Bo climbed up and down flights of stairs until *I* was downright exhausted.
Borealis, in contrast, seemed to have no lack of energy. Thrilled to discover that I was willing to help him venture into strange rooms, he next sought to discover what lay behind each door we passed. Some doors hid yet more stairways. Some doors were locked. Some doors led back outside. The most memorable doors, however, led into classrooms.
Brief side note: My kid is absolutely obsessed with lights. Traffic lights, especially — but really, any lights will do. So, imagine his surprise and delight when he entered one classroom and found a glass box of softly glowing audiovisual equipment… and imagine my surprise and delight when we discovered that the glass box was protected with a hefty lock. Bo’s sticky little toddler fingers were unable to gain him access to those tiny, twinkling lights. After smearing the glass box with a profusion of smudgy fingerprints, Borealis admitted defeat and abandoned the endeavor. He shoved a few chairs out of place for good measure, then vacated the room. Like any good alumna, I left the mess and followed my son.
The next room we explored was the lecture hall in which I took Heat Transfer. That semester was one of the worst times in my life. It was the perfect storm of so many challenges — the chief of which was watching my mother-in-law slowly lose her battle against brain cancer. That trial brought with it a number of related issues, and I had struggled to keep my life on track as I tried to balance chemical engineering coursework, wedding planning, triweekly visits to Taylor’s family in Minnesota, and three jobs.
Somehow, every negative emotion from that semester had become encapsulated in my feelings about Heat Transfer, and it became the course about which I have the worst memories. I remember crying in class next to my college-era best friend, who would dutifully ignore my breakdowns and continue to take notes for the both of us. That semester, I could have sworn that we were taking Heat Transfer in hell itself.
Only, as my son energetically ran up and down the classroom steps, I realized that maybe my three-year-old memories were a bit sensationalist. The lecture hall wasn’t hell; it was just a lecture hall. And, maybe it took my innocent son’s excitement to show me that truth.
Our wanderings eventually took us back outside, past the computer science building, and — finally — back to the car. Once he spied the opportunity to go home, Bo’s eventful afternoon finally seemed to catch up with him. He settled happily into his carseat, and he was quite well-behaved for the rest of the night.
After that day, our outings to Mines became more and more frequent — partly because of the proximity (less than a mile, door-to-door), and partly because, no matter what time or day, we seemed to always find an ideal location for walking. (Even on the weekends, when the academic buildings are locked, we could find a propped-open door. So much for security.) After making so many bad memories at Mines, the opportunity to make good — or even neutral — memories with my son was quite the healing experience for me.
And then, the unthinkable happened.
I really should have seen it coming. After all, Amazon has been sending out boxes that say, “Happy School Year!” for nearly a month now. But, I was still surprised on the day that the new freshmen showed up on campus.
My first thought was, “They’re so young!” Could I have really been in their place six years ago? (Wait — six years? When did I get so old?)
This initial observation was quickly supplanted by another: “Wow, they’re so mean!”
And indeed, it’s true. Mines freshmen are some of the most socially awkward, most arrogant, most exclusive and exclusionary individuals you could ever meet.
[Note: I know, because I was the worst of them. My social awkwardness/arrogance/exclusivity was only heightened by my status as a varsity cross country athlete. Man, I thought I was the best thing since sliced bread.]
The good news is that, by the end of senior year, life/professors/Mines will have sculpted many of these individuals into people who [almost] fit seamlessly into normal society. The bad news is that this eventuality is still four (or more) years away for this autumn’s incoming class, and until then, they’ll likely be as culturally xenophobic as every other recent class has been.
Nevertheless, I was hopeful that I wouldn’t be forced to give up my “perfect solution” quite yet. How bad could a campus full of pretentious freshmen be, after all?
Taylor, Bo, and I tested the waters last week. Shortly after the sun dipped behind the academic buildings, we parked in front of the chemical engineering hall and started our outdoor walk.
It would be an exaggeration to say that everyone stared at us. But, it would also be an exaggeration to say that no one stared at us.
Now, it bears mentioning that our family is *always* conspicuous. Taylor is conspicuous in terms of height. I’m conspicuous in terms of girth. And Borealis… well, he’s got his own stuff going on. So, it’s not unusual for us to get sidelong glances when we go out.
However, it *is* unusual for people to literally turn their head to follow our progress down the sidewalk. It’s also atypical for people to visibly glower as they watch us; regardless, several students were definitely mean-mugging. I don’t know. Perhaps they were annoyed at the reminder of what their future might hold.
After a quarter hour of these *not subtle* stares, I decided to call it quits.
“Alright babe, let’s go home,” I sighed.
Bo had been climbing up and down the steps of the Mines administrative building, and he was not pleased when Taylor scooped him up and started carrying him back to the car. Accordingly, he alternately screamed when we carried him or ran away from us when we didn’t. (Unfortunately, this behavior resulted in even more judgmental stares.)
As we got back to the car, I took another look around the Mines campus. No more Mines walks, I realized. At least, not unless I wanted to endure silent stares and/or condemnation. Soon, the entirety of campus would be overrun with students — students who [somewhat reasonably] generally believe that Bo and I have no right to wander the halls of their academic buildings.
I sighed at this realization and slumped against the window.
Upon seeing my body language, Taylor asked, “Why are you sad?”
I shrugged. After trying to escape Mines for four years, it seemed absurd that I should start to miss it now that it was socially off-limits to me. “I guess I just think it’s kind of ironic that, back in school, I was always so sad at the start of the fall semester — and, I’m sad now, too, but for the opposite reason.”
Taylor: <grunts in confusion>
I laughed. “Yeah, I guess that didn’t make any sense. What I’m saying is, I was always sad because the fall meant I had to come back to Mines. But this year, the fall means that I have to vacate Mines, and that’s actually kind of sad for me and the baby.”
Taylor: <grunts in attempted sympathy>
“Yeah, well, unless we move, we’ll have another go of it next year, I guess.”
Taylor: <grunts in supportive agreement>
So, dear reader, our daily outings will now take place somewhere other than my alma mater. Thankfully, the weather is finally starting to cool down, and soon, we’ll have plenty of outdoor destinations that are a safe and comfortable temperature for our family. But when the weather heats back up next June, you can guess where we’ll be!
That’s right: my family will once again be “school for the summer”.